


whilst summer lasts

by iamnassau



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 'i don't care' hickey says caringly caring a lot, Humor, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, Unrequited Crush, alexa play obsessed by mariah carey, hickey being a cringe weirdo with subpar naval knowledge, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25149952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnassau/pseuds/iamnassau
Summary: He never truly trusts anyone on this ship, makes sure of it. Still, his trepidation concerning Peglar’s reporting to superiors fades quickly. Cornelius sees the fine line he walks between compliance and rule-breaking, envies his freedom to do so. He contemplates this as he watches Peglar reading in the mess like always, day in, day out.He has been paying more attention than he’d ever confess.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey & Harry Peglar, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar (implied)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	whilst summer lasts

**Author's Note:**

> how do i even explain this. it came to me and i woke up in a cold sweat with a need. yes i basically made up peglar's personality and what about it
> 
> title is from shakespeare's cymbeline
> 
> hope u enjoy!

He doesn’t take notice of Peglar immediately. A raucous, good-natured type with a love of books, he gleans from mess hall conversation, and for all intents and purposes, relatively uninteresting to Cornelius. But there are certain aspects of the man that he gleans for himself, points he might note in anyone. 

The man dresses tidily, perhaps even more so than the other petty officers. Looking at each watch captain aboard, Cornelius gets the impression that Peglar is somewhat aged for his position, even if his behavior suggests otherwise. Perhaps he’s trying to compensate for that with what seems to be regularly-praised performance- with his obedience and good cheer. Why he hasn’t been promoted is a mystery, the men say. 

Cornelius is rather hesitant to approach a man with a sparkling reputation at hand. He might be happy to report any unusual activity, overt or not, while clutching the facade of an approachable mate. Could be an act to impress the wardroom, but nothing in particular about him screams hypocrisy. He understands why Peglar is respected, finds that he admires the man himself. Not often, but he proves to be of great assistance during the opening week at sea, and that must stand for something. He offers licorice root when Cornelius is sick from the choppy North Atlantic waters, explains the route they’re taking through Baffin Bay (the invisible path his finger runs along over the unfolded map gives Cornelius a nasty shock- into the Arctic, he says).

“I hoped we were going someplace warm.” Peglar gives him a pitying look, must think he was a last minute replacement, or that he’s illiterate. Fair enough assumptions, and safe, but it smarts a bit. To be underestimated in such a way.

After that revelation, Cornelius attaches himself to various officers and other such ranks, curious to inquire more about the ‘expedition’. Lieutenant Irving behaves stiffly in his presence, seems not to enjoy questioning. He begins to wonder if even the officers aren’t briefed on everything, but Mr. Blanky gives him much more to work with. According to a handbook Peglar had lent him, ice-master isn’t even a commissioned rank. So if Blanky knows, Irving must know; perhaps he just isn’t the sharing type. That’s alright.

He gravitates toward the kinder men on the ship, whom Harry Peglar is incidentally among. There’s nothing exceptional about him in Cornelius’ eyes, but he does have a clean look about him, and despite the rowdiness, he’s softhearted.

He never truly trusts anyone on this ship, makes sure of it. Still, his trepidation concerning Peglar’s reporting to superiors fades quickly. Cornelius sees the fine line he walks between compliance and rule-breaking, envies his freedom to do so. He contemplates this as he watches Peglar reading in the mess like always, day in, day out. 

He has been paying more attention than he’d ever confess.

So much attention, in fact, that he notices the hiccoughs and rhythms of Peglar’s beloved reading time. Today he reads Virgil and stops several times to squint at the pages, just slightly tilting the book this way and that as if looking for the hidden image in an illusion. No egregious mistake on his part, but obvious enough for Cornelius to take note of it. It isn’t the first time he’s had troubles like this, and he isn’t too proud to ask the other officers about words he stumbles over. If they notice the frequency of these requests or find them strange, they don’t say a word about it. Interesting for a watch captain to garner such loyalty. 

Almost a month has come and gone by the time Cornelius feels both secure and intrigued enough to approach him. Although ‘approach’ doesn’t describe it very well. He draws near, but never so directly. Always manifesting in Peglar’s path at the narrowest thresholds, offering help when it doesn’t encroach on his duty- and sometimes when it does, since he is committed to very little else. Rather he’s been given very little to commit to.

Peglar is graceful, climbing up the mast to his platform, and he must know that a few men are occasionally prone to watching him as he does so. He never calls out to them or questions it, so he must also know the reason why. And he must have similar proclivities. Cornelius looks up too, smiles and turns on his heel to face the sea.

He does this enough times to be noticed- although not enough to garner attention from the wrong sailors- and sometimes he happens to be standing at the base of the ladder when Peglar comes down. Smoking, walking idly by in conversation with another mate. And he knows that Peglar knows when a smile pulls at the corner of his lips one day. His eyes roll heavenward at the sight of Cornelius pretending not to wait for him like a stray cat on a rain-soaked doorstep. He thinks Peglar is properly endeared, but he escapes to one of the hatches leading down below before any words are exchanged. Cornelius lights another cigarette. Not to worry. He’ll get other opportunities, and Peglar won’t treat him like an unruly child if they get a chance to speak truly.

That opportunity comes sooner rather than later, when many of the men crowd on deck to witness some sort of mirage. Cornelius leans over the rail briefly and decides that he isn’t seeing shit. He heads down to the hold to pick up a length of rope. Early in the morning hours, his hammock had frayed, dumping him onto the cold wood planks and giving him a nasty bruise up his side. Of course, it had given the watch team coming in a good laugh as they switched off with the next group. It was probably the first time some of them had even seen his face.

The bruise is still warm and tender as he strains while descending the ladder, but it feels like it won’t take more than a handful of days to fade to a rust brown. A hollow shuffling sounds from behind him as he gets both feet on the floor.

“Ah, Mr. Hickey!”

“Mr. Peglar.” He’s sitting on a crate stacked against the wall, pinching tobacco from his tin into a length of paper. “Did you get an opportunity to see the mystery on the horizon, sir?”

Peglar smiles, sweet as molasses. “Yes. Exciting, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely.” Cornelius pulls an empty crate down and sits down across from him in one motion. “I was hoping we’d meet.” Peglar’s brows raise, but the smile remains, so he deems it safe to continue. “You must think me foolish, the waiting and sidestepping and suchlike.”

He shakes his head. “Oh no. I don’t. I’m sure you have a purpose in this.” Cornelius falters then, genuinely. “You bring it to my attention as if you didn’t want me to notice.” Peglar exhales a short laugh, and Cornelius follows suit, rubbing his hands together.

“The truth is, sir, I didn’t.” The look that Peglar levels him with is surprisingly sharp. The man strikes a match, startling him. Perhaps that isn’t the answer he wants; perhaps he knows it’s far from the truth. “Well, maybe I did,” he offers coyly. Reading Peglar is more difficult in converse than he’d anticipated, and with the dim lamplight, even more so. He doesn’t seem inclined to use his rank to compel Cornelius. And despite possessing a frank way of speaking, Peglar’s boyish mannerisms and delicate movements make him wonder if he doesn’t require a firmer hand.

Then he realizes two things, one after the other in quick succession. First, that Peglar delights in this. That he isn’t the least bit interested in anything but hearing Cornelius explain himself. It’s written all over his face. Second, he’s been looking for too long. Fuck. He stands up abruptly. “It looks like I am a fool after all,” he admits with a good-natured smile. 

Peglar sees that he understands and offers him the cigarette, which he takes, figuring that there is no one else to witness this humiliation but the two of them. “Good man. Let me string up your hammock for you,” he says, in a gentle tone that thankfully reads more as a peace offering than as a pity.

Cornelius is already turned toward the light flooding from the open hatch. “Thank you kindly, sir.” He curses himself for still trying to appeal to Peglar’s miniscule authority, throws one more smile his way before non-verbally making his excuses and climbing back up to squint at the damn horizon with the lot of them. They don’t even know what they’re supposed to be seeing. He purses his lips around Peglar’s half-smoked cigarette and sits on a crate, preparing for his watch team to be called before long.

His hammock is pristinely repaired, and he is tempted to pick at the rope with his seam raker until it comes loose again.

-

Only a few days pass before he learns a key piece of information about Harry Peglar. The ships have stopped in Greenland to let a few men go, to send correspondence back home. Cornelius doesn’t have an excuse to take leave or anybody to send a letter to, so he spends most of these few days curled up in his bunk, enjoying the lack of movement which so often keeps him awake. It’s colder than he’s ever known July in England, which only makes sense if Peglar’s map was right. The weather and the reminders it brings put him in a particularly waspish, solitary mood, but he can sometimes manage a few rounds on the deck to make it look like he’s working.

During one of these rounds, he stops to look down on the whaling outpost, curious. He’s not liable to leave the ship now, but the visible purple dotting the hills piques his interest, and he comes to the railing to get a closer look. Snow is still piled upon the higher peaks, but the arctic flowers growing below and the thick sea breeze almost allow him to pretend it isn’t nearly freezing in midsummer. Then a few bundled figures appear to trample the blooms- men bringing back ox meat for the ships’ stores. Cornelius sighs. He finds Peglar, Manson, Paterson, and one of the Erebus lieutenants doing most of the lifting, along with a man he’s never seen before standing at Peglar’s flank. Older, no hat, dark brows.

He stops Mr. Blanky passing by with a relatively insubordinate tap. “Who’s that?”

“Mr. Bridgens, one of the Erebus stewards. Decent fellow. Why?”

Bridgens says something, claps Peglar on the shoulder, and they both laugh. “Just never seen him before is all.” Technically it isn’t true, since he has seen  _ someone  _ glued to Harry Peglar’s side since they docked, but he’s not paid any mind before.

“He’s rowed over for the officers’ dinner service,” Blanky says, but Cornelius says nothing, ignoring his quizzical tone. The ice master turns away eventually, leaving him to watch as the party approaches the ship. Bridgens speaks to the Erebus lieutenant and doesn’t go back with him, instead helping the Terror men haul their share of meat up. He steps back from the rail, unnoticed by the few stewards and cooks who have stepped up to transport it. Still, he hears their chatter, even over the creaking of the gangway. 

“They’re much like bluebells in the Kent woodlands, aren’t they, John?”

Bridgens nods, smiling as he hands a parcel off. “Yes, there’s often confusion between the two. In Scotland, they’re referred to by that name. But when Shakespeare talked of harebells, he was referring to an English bluebell.”

“Harebells in Shakespeare?”

“Cymbeline. You haven’t read that one yet.” Peglar makes a soft sound of understanding. “If only I had a copy here.”

“That’s alright. What is the scene?”

Bridgens chuckles, as they both pick up new loads. “A funeral. Fairies dancing about Imogen’s body and such.” Cornelius can just see them through the netting where he’s tucked up against a mast, and after the ox meat is taken care of, they remain on deck, leaning against the railing just as he had with their backs to him. Bridgens digs in the pocket of his peacoat, presenting one of the purple flowers. “Though they know her as a boy, and she isn’t truly dead.” Peglar takes it, briefly clasping his hand between them. “You might press it in your journal, Henry.”

Henry. Cornelius’ mouth twitches, perhaps a smile, perhaps not. But even so, he understands now. The old man calls him Henry. He steps out from his perch- certainly not a hiding place- and waves when their heads turn. Bridgens looks perplexed, Peglar almost pleasantly surprised. 

He takes his cap off and deposits the flower inside it. “Afternoon, Mr. Hickey,” he says, all his characteristic good cheer at work. 

“Mr. Peglar.” He tips his head in acknowledgment. “And you are…”

“John Bridgens,” Peglar answers for him. “The Erebus officers’ steward.”

He puts his hand out, grinning, and Bridgens takes it. “Cornelius Hickey, caulker’s mate. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bridgens.” No hint of recognition crosses his face, and Cornelius is really quite insulted that Peglar hasn’t said anything about him. Isn’t he worth at least a complaint?

In fact, Bridgens still looks puzzled even once they’ve stepped out of the (quite firm) handshake. “It’s a pleasure, sir,” he says, almost hushed, in contrast to his wrench-like grip. 

“Sure.” Another smile between them, then Peglar is almost literally tugging at his companion’s sleeve. 

“I want you to see something,” he entreats, an excuse to escape if Cornelius has ever seen one. They have at least the decency to wave without haste, and then they’re off, toward the foremast which Peglar points to in triumph. Maybe he does have something to show after all. And maybe Cornelius imagines seeing a query on Bridgens’ lips, and Peglar mouthing, “I’ll tell you later.” It’s none of his business anyway.

When he turns about, the Terror’s own steward is wiping juice from the meat on his apron as he emerges onto the deck. Gibson. Looking at the man- taciturn, sober, lethargic- Cornelius deigns to make a friend of him yet. Every effort to speak with him so far has been like prodding a dead horse. But he sees Gibson look out on the floral arrangement below, bloody prints marring his apron- and his interest picks up again just like that. It’s a talent, really. 

Peglar is not so easily forgotten, he knows. And he knows it especially when he offers Billy Gibson his half-smoked cigarette at the gangway, watching as pink stains materialize on the wrapping paper beneath his fingers. “Don’t you wonder about that outpost? I heard they’ve got ivory pieces.”

Gibson rolls his eyes. “Ivory from what?”

“How should I know? Is Cornelius Hickey, caulker’s mate, an Arctic expert? Let’s hear it from the Danes.” Gibson huffs out a laugh, as though he’s annoyed to be succumbing to such a thing as laughter, but when Cornelius edges past him onto the gangway, he drops the apron and follows. 

**Author's Note:**

> explanation of a few things:  
> \- i swear i know ships have proper parts but hickey only knows 5 naval terms and is proud of every last one  
> \- bridgens does not have an unusually strong handshake hickey just didn't drink enough milk as a kid  
> \- peglar doesn't actually outrank hickey but doesn't correct him bc he thinks it's funny. later hickey realizes this and briefly considers killing him
> 
> thank you for reading and hanging in there for whatever this was


End file.
